The Laurentide Retreat

I should begin. That is the first step following once again. Now, it's a wonderful day in that the sun is out on an otherwise February day when there might be otherwise rain etc. Not so. In as much as I can begin I shall. That said, we are certain of a preclusive ending, of a hollowed out day that revolves around one of many items, sex not the least among them. Has even sun over the clouds become a redeemed or overstocked shelf, replete with cineplex, with crackerjacks, with a variety of less obvious items for us. I loose and gender wise couldn't be specific but have felt even the lack of rain today as a blessing in disease. Our frail earth eager planet, calm overstated leaders, eager leaders, gaining ground on their war torn morals, their circumnavigated super egos, their abandoned hearts left palpitating on deserted sand fields. Our frail earth eager planet, calm overstated leaders in their corpuscular hunger have eager eyes and heavy hands. Our frail eager leaders lead beaver by the hand, no expenses spared. Our corpuscular hunger leaves us frail, dilapidated, outdated, outmoded and obsolete. The fat collects around the middle, the hair falls softly to the green grass, mildew is successfully combated via a panoply of finely tuned products. Do we touch ourselves? I certainly do, fondling eagerly in early hours, beneath predawn bed sheets.

It seems only backward march in this fight. Flight you might call it. The adversaries are certainly real and well organized. That's for sure. Don't you know I know if you are around the bedazzled sun rays at this angle coming down between the house and the mailbox, catching the glint of the window while they're at it we're in our already gone days for this was is. Take this and here we are again dazzled by this inability to imagine anything beyond the surface of our imagination, not even that.

About the author:

Ian's work has been published in Index, a now long defunct magazine out of Tucson, Arizona, at, and previously at He won a writing award in the sixth grade, which failed to prepare him for the many years of anonymity in store for him. He lives in Brooklyn with countless other writers. Visit for more of his work.